December night plays at sip my shadows through the door, drunk on light it drains the glass of this short day and dims the sight like many winter days before
Each and every place we look, it's not the dying light which smokes upon the pyre, but truth, and plain reality opposed to that which we desire, we cannot trust if all we know is doubt and certainty is cast upon the fire
Not quite strong enough to pass, although I try, and beat with painted wings upon the glass, the world beyond the window is where I want to be, success is the garden, the butterfly is me